


Fool Me Once

by Kat_rawr



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Popular!Louis, Rimming, Sexual Content, Shotgunning, Slightly Rape, larry - Freeform, nerdy!Harry, rich kids, rich!louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:56:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kat_rawr/pseuds/Kat_rawr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's life is no fairytale. How can it be when he is stuck at a school full of rich self-centered boys. </p><p>Nobody cares about Harry, after all, he is only there because a scholarship. He isn't pretty, he isn't special, he isn't rich, maybe that's why Stan decides to make Harry's life a living hell from the second he steps a foot inside the boarding school's doors.</p><p>Or, Harry is in love with the popular Louis Tomlinson, who doesn't give him the time of the day - until he does. Harry is naïve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fool Me Once

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've written months ago and decided to pick it up again.  
> *Future chapters will be longer though.
> 
> Enjoy? x

_  
_**Fool Me Once I - September**

_”We have a choice. To live or to exist” – Harry Styles_

_\--_

Harry sighs heavily, before relaxing his neck; his head falling down on the mahogany table. He sighs again before lifting his head and letting his hand run over his forehead making sure there isn’t a bump forming. Shaking his curls out of his face, back up so they’re standing in an unnatural quiff; he looks back down at the almost blank paper.

Why can’t he finish this song?

At home, before all of this, writing a song had been easy, (okay, maybe not easy, but it had never felt impossible before). Just letting his hand do the job, forming the words in his neat handwriting. Pouring his thoughts and feelings out, all the things he is afraid to say, but not afraid to sing.

Writing a song has always helped him unwind. Getting back on the right track, when everything felt like it is too much. But now, when the only thing he feels like, is pouring his heart out in form of a song - nobody but him would ever hear - he can’t. He can’t fucking even finish the first verse.

He looks down at the three simple written sentences, biting the end of his pencil, a kind of metallic taste mixed with saliva and wood spreading on his tongue. He feels pathetic. _Three_ lines is all he has got.

\-- And then what? This is all he has after hiding in the library for five hours. _Five_ _hours_.

Letting out another frustrated sigh, he lifts the paper with the few lines and takes out another from the little pile he’s brought. Pushing the others away annoyed, keeping the blank one in his right hand. He looks at it for a bit. Enjoying the silence, but still begging for other sounds. The noises of people talking, laughing quietly, a person turning a page in a book. But nothing. They would never stoop that low, he had already realised that. He is alone. But nonetheless, he hungers for it. Needs it.

Placing the blank paper from his hand back down on the dark brown table, he picks up his pen, scribbling two little words down in the right corner of it. Folding it carefully, - making sure it isn’t awry, - with the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips. When he is done, he takes it up, exanimates it, before pulling his hand back, just to move it forward again, letting go of the paper plane. He watches it as it moves easily through the air, before making a weird turn and falling helplessly to the ground.

Harry suppresses a frustrated whine, resting his elbows on the table, pressing his palms hard against his eyes instead. He keeps pressing until everything goes black, and a few colour explosions – mainly red and green, - in different forms and sizes starts to show behind his eyelids. Moving his hands, without waiting for his sight to reappear, he stands up grabs the paper pile and shows it down his messenger bag, and throws it over his shoulder.

Moving away from his safe corner – the one farthest away from the door – leaving the calming familiar scent of old books behind him, Harry walks out of the library, hoping to just move through the halls and corridors without running into anyone who has come back early after the long weekend.

Looking down at his feet while he walks, hearing the rhythmically sound echo between the walls every time his feet hit the floor, Harry bites down on his bottom lip. Whishing he had been home for the long weekend, too. It has been too long since he has seen his family. He misses them. It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy being here; it is just that he doesn’t enjoy it at all.

The education is amazing, the teachers are nice, the school’s beautifully decorated, only with the best -- more posh and expensive than he is used to, much more expensive. He doesn’t belong there, he is reminded that every single day.

Focussing on not falling over the steps on the stairs leading up to the corridor where his room is, lost in his own mind about warm tea, the scent of vanilla, familiar arms always holding him when he needs it, and just everything about home. He almost thinks he has made it safe to his room without meeting anyone else, not having to listen to all their hurtful words, and loud laughs. Making him feel like he doesn’t deserve this, but at the same time feel like he is so much better than them, because at least he has earned this by himself. Almost.

“Hey, Puppy?” Harry cringes involuntary by the sound of the voice, and stops dead in his tracks, holding back a little cry, because his door is right there. He can see it. It is right _there._

Harry looks down at his feet, that seem too big for his limb-y, thin legs. “’m not a puppy…” He mumbles so low; he almost doesn’t catch it himself.

But Stan does.

“What’s that?” Stan asks, moving into Harry’s personal space.

Harry doesn’t say anything, afraid to look up just to get confirmed that Stan isn’t alone.

Stan sighs annoyed, and grabs Harry’s hair, pulling it back, forcing Harry to look at him. Harry gasps; this is not the good kind of pain. Even when Harry is looking at Stan, (glad to realise Stan for once, in all the time he has harassed Harry, is alone), he doesn’t let go, just tightens his grip in Harry’s curls.

“You know what Styles? You are a puppy. So eager to please everyone, even though nobody wants you around.“ Stan stops, and looks up at Harry as if he has just gotten a brilliant idea. His smirk turning into one of the wicked ones. One of those, he saves purely for Harry’s torture.

“If you are so eager to please, I’ve something you could help me with--“ Stan stops and pushes his hips forward, letting them roll against Harry’s, like it is the answer to what Stan wants from him. Which, it is. Harry has to bite down on his tongue to stop a sob from leaving his lips.

Of all the people at the school, Stan is the worst. He seems to be the one highest in the hierarchy, and if it weren’t for him, Harry’s life would probably be easier. He still wouldn’t have any friends, but at least people would leave him alone. How does it help when Stan almost always has his best friend with him? A best friend, who doesn’t really seem to agree with Stan’s way of treating Harry, but still doesn’t do anything about it. Not even a single word to stop it. A best friend named Louis Tomlinson. A best friend Harry has been completely and utterly lost for, since the day he first saw him.

“--Now, put that little mouth of yours to use, Puppy,” Stan presses on Harry’s shoulders, forcing him down on his knees, unbuttoning his own trousers, letting them slide down just enough for Stan’s prick to be let free. Harry looks at it with teary eyes, silently begging and praying to never meet Stan alone again, because he is quite certain this won’t be the last time he will be forced to do this if Stan finds another opportunity to get Harry alone.

Tears streaming down his face, Stan’s hand behind his head, forcing Harry to bob his head, swallowing him down. Harry is humiliated, in the middle of the corridor, sucking Stan off. Stan must have been needy, which is kind of inevitably at the school. Most students share a room with another, and they have community bathrooms so they can’t even wank in the showers. (Harry of course, has his own room, because all the other boys has begged their parents, to pay the school not to let them room with him, because being in any kind of relation to him would mean social suicide, Harry has realised that much.) Nonetheless it doesn’t take Harry more than a few minutes to get Stan close. Harry knows his blowjobs need to be worked on. (If you count, this would be his third).

Harry whimpers and gags as Stan forces his dick in balls-deep, and releases himself down Harry’s throat, almost choking him, not letting him go before he has swallowed it all. Stan lets himself fall limp out of Harry’s mouth and tucks himself back in his pants, before petting Harry’s head, chuckling, and leaving him with a _later, Puppy_.

On his knees on the floor, crying and gasping for air in the silent corridor, Stan’s voice seems to echo, forcing it’s way into Harry head again and again.

It takes Harry around five minutes to collect himself enough to get up on his shaky legs and move the four doors down until he reaches his room. He can only pray nobody has come their way and seen them.

Harry stumbles into his bathroom, trying to force himself to throw up in the toilet bowl, but nothing comes up. His eyes hurt from crying, and his cheeks seem to be permanently wet. But nothing compares to the ripping in his chest and the humiliation. Even though nobody saw them, – if, nobody saw them, that is, – the humiliation of Stan knowing he can do this, that Harry is so weak, is humiliation enough. Harry feels awful. He rapidly forces two fingers down his throat, almost caressing it, trying desperately to throw up what Stan had left inside him. But nothing. Nothing but a bit of spit forced its way up.

Still sobbing, Harry stands up, holding himself up with help from the sink.

He must have brushed his teeth for more than double the time he normally would, and even then, the taste of Stan doesn’t seem to leave his mouth.

Feeling heavy, and struggling to control every single movement, Harry gets himself back to his room, and collapses on the bed. He just wants to disappear. Make the memory go away, force it from his frontal lobe, where it currently keeps replaying. Almost in a trance Harry gets his iPod out of his bag, he earlier had thrown beside the bed. He pulls the covers up over his head and curls into himself, as he plugs the earphones in and turns it all the way up, to the point where the sound is whiney and painful. But he can’t seem to care. He just wants an escape.

He lies there for hours with a depressing playlist he has named _Black_ on replay. And only to the calming notes and disturbingly reliable words of the playing songs _,_ does Harry drift off to sleep, no more tears left to cry, only the stabbing pain in his chest, and a faint taste of something gross in the back of his throat.

It isn’t much peace Harry gets though.

He is awoken by the tones of _Marimba_ ringing through his earphones, making him sit up with a hitched breath. The covers fall to his hips, as he desperately searches for his phone to turn of the alarm.

When he finally turns it off, the annoying melody has been too loud, and Harry’s head is pounding.

He makes a mental note to change it later.

Groaning, he reaches out to his left, and opens the drawer on his bedside table, taking out the medicine.

It isn’t like Harry is sick or anything; he just needs it to stay healthy.

When Harry was a kid he sometimes had some troubles breathing, especially when he had been running around with his best friend Michael, playing tag, or tumbling on the ground, getting grass marks on his knees, play fighting. It hadn’t been serious. Nobody had taken it serious. Every time Harry had complained about his chest hurting, they had just simply blamed it on him having a bad cardio. In the end he had just stopped complaining about it. That is until he had been in his early teenage years, and he had collapsed on the ground while fooling around. He remembers the pain, and feeling like his lungs closed in on him, heaving and struggling to get air down his lungs. His eyes had welled up with tears, and he had been convinced he was going to die. Harry is still not sure how it happened, but he had ended up in an ambulance with his mum by his side, squeezing his hand to the point it went numb.

It had taken time for him to figure out his surroundings, which probably was the reason he hadn’t noticed the paramedic bend over him, holding the oxygen mask in place over his mouth. The paramedic explained – probably as much for his sake, as for his mum’s, - that Harry had been close to having a spontaneous pneumothorax, which is when a small area in the lung can break, causing the air to escape his lungs, and fill up the space around them. He had been lucky he hadn’t had a lung collapse, the paramedic had said. Harry didn’t feel lucky about it. Even after Harry had been checked and had got confirmed that he was fine, and he didn’t have a lung collapse (no shit, they had only mentioned that about a hundred and seven times), someone insisted on checking him again.

Harry had asthma. It isn’t overly dangerous, and won’t really stop him from doing normal things like that. It had just been getting this bad because he hadn’t gotten an inhaler to treat it when he felt his lungs close (Harry’s mum was crying at this point, blaming herself for not listening to Harry through the years. Harry had hugged her, and told her rapidly it wasn’t her fault). To prevent it further and controlling the inflammation, Harry had gotten some medicine prescribed and left with an inhaler – in case it happens, even though he keeps taking medicine.

So Harry isn’t sick. He just doesn’t like to jeopardize his health.

Medicine securely down his stomach, he reaches for his phone again, groaning when the numbers shows him he hasn’t gotten more than forty minutes worth of sleep, probably less. He isn’t sure when he did get back from the library, and he defiantly isn’t sure how long his… The thing with Stan had taken.

The mere thought of it has Harry crumbling, and hugging his legs again. He feels feverish and weak. He feels so weak. So drained from everything. His body heavy, eyes stinging, and his head pounding. He feels empty and hurt.

Almost choking on a sob, sniffling in, Harry lifts his phone with shaking hands. He needs to talk to someone.

He listens to the anxious beeps; sounding so loud and out of place in the dark, quiet room. Pulling the covers closer around him, leaning against the headboard, hugging himself, needing to hold himself together, not crumbling to the ground, shattered and left alone for days, maybe weeks, before the broken pieces, that would be left of him, is found.

Picking at a loose shred on his sleeve, Harry feels the last bit of hope seep out of him.

Desperately ringing the same number again, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in for his best friend to pick up. And if he believed, he would say his prayers had been heard.

“Hi Haz, how are you doing? Things going well?” Michael’s familiar voice rings through his speakers, only slightly distorted.

Harry needs to gulp down the lump, in his throat, and steady his breathing before he can say something, and even then, his voice comes out raspy and broken.

“Can you talk? Just please-- just talk about something. Anything.” The silence meeting him breaks him just that little bit more. He wants to tell someone. He wants so bad to let someone know about everything. How lonely he is, about the names, the pushing, and Stan. He wants so bad to tell someone, but he knows he can’t.

Fresh tears are streaming down his face, and he is almost sure Michael has hung up on him when he starts speaking.

“Jason got expelled last week. He ran naked on the stage during Mr Godwin’s speech; it’s safe to say the majority of the faculty didn’t find it funny. I thought it was hilarious though. Boy is crazy, but we already know that. And Andy and Danielle broke up. Again. I don’t see why they keep getting back together--“ Michael continues to speak. Telling Harry about the people at home, keeping him updated, and even making him smile a bit.

Harry knows Michael won’t ask. At least not when he aren’t there to keep Harry together, and hold him close. But that doesn’t stop the feeling of the conversation being wrong. There is nothing fun, or joking about Michael’s tone, it is monotone. Nothing of their usual playful banter, and the conversation is one-sided. Not once does Harry stop Michael, or ask any questions. He is just listening, letting himself be calmed down by the voice, and if he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he is there. That he is home.

It isn’t before thirty-seven (Harry watched the time) minutes later; Michael lets out a sigh, finally running out of things to tell.

The line is silent, only their breathing confirming it isn’t dead.

“Your mum misses you, you know? And Gemma and Robin. Hell Harry, you know if they had the money they would get you home at any chance they get,” Michael’s words are whispered, just like they always are.

A whimper escapes Harry’s lips. He knows it’s true. He knows. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Thank you,” he croaks out, feeling the words scratch in his throat before coming out as a broken sound. Almost like nails on a chalkboard.

“Always Haz, I’ll see you soon, okay? Ring me whenever! I love you.” Michael always makes sure to say the same things before he hangs up. Knowing it’s what Harry needs. Because even when Harry doesn’t tell him, Michael knows something isn’t right. He might not know, what or how bad it is. But he knows. He chokingly mumbles back an _I love you, too_ , before hanging up.

He places the phone in the charger, and scoots down on the bed, making himself comfortable. He doesn’t feel like going down for food today, knowing Stan will be there.

Dried tears on his cheeks, and a permanent lump in his throat, Harry stares up at the ceiling, the only light coming from the dark blue heaven, peaking through a crack in the curtain. He doesn’t know how long he lies like that. But the streak of light from the sky disappears, only for the night turning pitch black, and return even brighter, before Harry rolls over on his side and let’s his eyes fall shut. Body Aching, being a reassurance to his numb mind.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry! This wasn't ever supposed to happen!
> 
> Please stay with me through this, I'll beg you, I can't do it alone!
> 
>    
> [Tumblr](http://zarry-rawr.tumblr.com)


End file.
